“Good for you. How is tonight?”
“About midnight,” she added hopefully.
I smiled. Everyone thought midnight was the perfect time for raising the dead. All that was required was darkness. Some people did put a great deal of stock in certain phases of the moon, but I had never found it necessary. “No, how about nine o’clock?”
“Nine?”
“If that will be all right. I have two other appointments tonight, and nine was left open.”
She smiled. “That will be fine.” Her hand shook as she signed the check for half the fee, the other half to be delivered after the raising.
We shook hands, and she said, “Call me Carla.”
“I’m Anita.”
“I’ll see you at nine tonight at Wellington Cemetery.”
I continued for her, “Between two large trees and across from the only hill.”
“Yes, thank you.” She flashed a watery smile and was gone.
I buzzed our receptionist area. “Mary, I’m booked up for this week and won’t be seeing any more clients, until at least next Tuesday.”
“I’ll see to it, Anita.”
I leaned back in my chair and soaked up the silence. Three animations a night was my limit. Tonight they were all routine, or almost. I was bringing back my first research scientist. His three colleagues couldn’t figure out his notes, and their deadline, or rather grant, was running close. So dear Dr. Richard Norris was coming back from the dead to help them out. They were scheduled for midnight.
At three this next morning I would meet the widowed Mrs. Stiener. She wanted her husband to clear up some nasty details with his will.
Being an animator meant very little nightlife, no pun intended. Afternoons were spent interviewing clients and evenings raising the dead. Though we few were very popular at a certain kind of party—the sort where the host likes to brag about how many celebrities he knows, or worse yet, the kind who simply want to stare. I don’t like being on display and refuse to go to parties unless forced. Our boss likes to keep us in the public eye to dispel rumors that we are witches or hobgoblins.
It’s pretty pitiful at parties. All the animators huddled, talking shop like a bunch of doctors. But doctors don’t get called witch, monster, zombie queen. Very few people remember to call us animators. For most, we are a dark joke. “This is Anita. She makes zombies, and I don’t mean the drink.” Then there would be laughter all around, and I would smile politely and know I’d be going home early.
Tonight there was no party to worry over, just work. Work was power, magic, a strange dark impulse to raise more than what you were paid for. Tonight would be cloudless, moonlit, and starred; I could feel it. We were different, drawn to the night, unafraid of death and its many forms, because we had a sympathy for it.
Tonight I would raise the dead.
Wellington Cemetery was new. All the tombstones were nearly the same size, square or rectangle, and set off into the night in near-perfect rows. Young trees and perfectly clipped evergreen shrubs lined the gravel driveway. The moon rode strong and high, bathing the scene clearly, if mysteriously, in silver and black. A handful of huge trees dotted the grounds. They looked out of place among all this newness. As Carla had said, only two of them grew close together.
The drive spilled into the open and encircled the hill. The mound of grass-covered earth was obviously man-made, so round, short, and domed. Three other drives centered on it. A short way down the west drive stood two large trees. As my car crunched over gravel, I could see someone dressed in white. A flare of orange was a match, and the reddish pinpoint of a cigarette sprang to life.
I stopped the car, blocking the drive, but few people on honest business visit cemeteries at night. Carla had beaten me here, very unusual. Most clients want to spend as little time as possible near the grave after dark. I walked over to her before unloading equipment.
There was a litter of burned-out cigarettes like stubby white bugs about her feet. She must have been here in the dark for hours waiting to raise a zombie. She either was punishing herself or enjoyed the idea. There was no way of knowing which.
Her dress, shoes, even hose, were white. Earrings of silver flashed in the moonlight as she turned to me. She was leaning against one of the trees, and its black trunk emphasized her whiteness. She only turned her head as I came up to her.
Her eyes looked silver-gray in the light. I couldn’t decipher the look on her face. It wasn’t grief.
“It’s a beautiful night, isn’t it?”
I agreed that it was. “Carla, are you all right?”
She stared at me terribly calm. “I’m feeling much better than I did this afternoon.”
“I’m very glad to hear that. Did you remember to bring his clothes and a memento?”
She motioned to a dark bundle by the tree.